


Touch Starved

by eeyore9990



Series: French Lingerie [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Cross-Generation Relationship, Crossdressing, Lingerie, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-16
Updated: 2014-11-16
Packaged: 2018-02-25 14:22:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2625017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eeyore9990/pseuds/eeyore9990
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris likes to touch things, to feel them against his skin, against the grain of his fingertips.  Isaac noticed it long ago.  Noticed how Chris' fingers would stroke the barrel of his gun, or smooth over the silky wood of the stock.</p><p>When it comes straight down to it, though, Chris doesn't touch Isaac.</p><p>--</p><p>Side story to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2309900">What Happens In France</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	Touch Starved

**Author's Note:**

  * For [badwolfbadwolf](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badwolfbadwolf/gifts).



> For Wolfie, who needs an inspiration boost to her next checkpoint. Love you, bb. YOU CAN DO IT!! I BELIEVE IN YOU!!

Chris likes to touch things, to feel them against his skin, against the grain of his fingertips. Isaac noticed it long ago. Noticed how Chris' fingers would stroke the barrel of his gun, or smooth over the silky wood of the stock. How he'd touch Allison's face with wonder parting his lips, like he was staring into her eyes and seeing the entirety of the universe. 

When it comes straight down to it, though, Chris doesn't touch Isaac.

Or, no, that's not fair. Chris will drop his hand on Isaac's shoulder for a brief squeeze or ruffle his hair if he's sitting down. But Chris doesn't let his touch linger the way Isaac wants. The way he _needs_. 

Isaac has always been touch-starved. Even when Cam was alive, their dad didn't have time or energy to spare for things like affection. After Cam, the only touches Isaac received were from a hand closed into a rock of a fist. And then he became a werewolf and the _need_ hit him. The need for closeness and touching and comfort. It eats at him like a living thing, like the wolf has turned on him with claws and teeth, ripping him up from the inside.

Isaac watches Chris rub a silk scarf between his fingers, a look of such complete softness passing across his features that it makes Isaac's breath catch in his lungs. When Chris moves on, Isaac brushes his own fingers over the fabric, just to see what it was that put that look on Chris' face and he… well, it feels nice. But it's not breath-catching or anything. It's not warm and comforting, not filled with tenderness. 

Isaac buys it anyway. He wraps it around his neck and pretends he can still feel the heat of Chris' touch through the fabric. 

After that, it's a drive to find as many fabrics to lay over his skin as possible. The softest wools and silks. A cashmere sweater. Chris doesn't question it, just nods approvingly.

Without touching. Once it hits Isaac's body, Chris keeps his hands to himself. It's… infuriating.

Isaac doesn't know when it changes. When it turns from a general need for touch to quench the hunger inside himself to a sexual need for fingers skimming over his skin, but sometime in those first months in France, he stops looking back and starts looking forward. And in looking forward, he sees Chris. _Sees_ him and begins to realize that his need to stay close to the man has twisted around on itself and become an obsession. 

He needs Chris like he's never needed another living soul and it _terrifies_ him. The desire to be touched is all wrapped up in that need, of course, but so is the rest of it. The scent of Chris that wafts around the apartment when they're together, the heat that lingers in the sofa when he gets up to go to bed, the smell that grows stronger on the nights he's _too_ quiet on his squeaky mattress in his room. 

Isaac vibrates with the tension of wanting and not having. Or, more specifically, of wanting and having but not having _enough_.

And that's how he finds himself in the back of a shop that sells everything from silk shirts to lingerie, a black lace garter belt in his hands. He brushes it over his cheek, delighting in the scratch of the lace over his skin; drapes it over his hand to see the stark offset of the black against his pale skin. A shop girl appears beside him and she's smiling softly, her own eyes trained on where the material rests against his wrist. 

" _Ce est beau,_ " she breathes, reaching out as if to touch, but pulling her hand back before it reaches him. It's a move Chris has pulled on him a thousand times, and just seeing it here, on this stranger, has Isaac shaking so hard the garter belt falls to the floor.

"I don't," he starts, then clears his throat and continues haltingly, " _Parle vous englais_?"

Her smile broadens and this time when she reaches out, her hand wraps around his wrist in welcome. "You are American?"

Isaac nods, relief washing through him, more from the touch than from her use of English. He tells her what he wants and revels in the little brushes of her hands over him as she holds up one garment after another, her manner professional and yet necessarily grabby. 

He loves it.

By the time he leaves the shop, he has Jeanette's number and a promise of fun "even if your man does not approve."

He doesn't correct her.

When he gets back to the apartment, Chris is gone, but a note flutters in the breeze from an open window, barely held in place by a bag of coffee beans.

_Gone to the market for dinner. Be home in a bit. —C_

Isaac crumples the paper in his fist, thinking to throw it away, but instead he brings it to his nose and inhales, smells the sharpness of the ink and the musty manufactured scent of the paper, but he can also smell the oils from Chris' hands. From where he'd pressed his fingers to the paper to keep it in place while writing. The scent sends warmth through his belly, and he finally drops the paper into the bin before hurrying to his room to try on his purchases.

He strips down to his bare skin before taking the tissue-wrapped items from the bag. They're all so delicate, but Jeanette had assured him they'd fit as well as any product designed for the female form could fit a man. He looks down and frowns at himself, sees the hair on his legs and wonders if he should shave it off. It's not that bad, not even very thick. It's fairer than the hair on his head, and sparse.

He considers it. Considers spreading shaving cream over his legs and then stripping them bare. Considers how everything would feel against the sensitive skin. But he also knows he doesn't have time for that. 

Going to the market doesn't take that long, and there's no telling when Chris actually left. He could be home, literally, in the next minute or two.

Isaac dithers for a moment before carefully lifting the silky stockings from their nest of tissue. He's never really considered how nice it is not to have callouses before now, when he knows they'd catch against the nylons and snag them. He's careful, so careful, as he bunches the material down to the toes and slips it over his foot. He doesn't tug too hard, mindful of the mini-lesson Jeanette had given him. 

It's not until he's got the stocking all the way up his thigh that he realizes he's missed a step of two. Muttering to himself, he secures the garter belt around his waist, then wants to yell because if he secures the stocking to the belt, he won't be able to get the panties on right.

With a sigh, he removes the panties from their tissue paper and spreads them out on the bed, considering which pair to put on. There's a rainbow of colors to choose from, but the ones that really strike his fancy are the purple ones. Isaac untangles them from the rest of the panties and lifts his feet into them before sliding them up his legs. 

He has to stop halfway because the difference of the feel of the satin through the nylons on his right leg and his bare skin on his left is giving him a problem that will make the fit of the panties impossible. His cock is fully at half-chub and though he knows Chris could come home any moment, he can't stop himself from yanking one of the other panties from the pile.

They're the white silk, which he'd thought was a waste of money, but which Jeanette had assured him were quite becoming in a way that speaks to men of purity. So, nonsense really, but he wasn't going to judge her for doing her job. But as it is, perhaps getting them in white would work in his favor because at least the stains, if there were any, would be less noticeable in this fabric than in the red, blue, or black.

Or the purple that are still caught half-way up his thighs.

With a sigh, Isaac falls back on the bed, crushing mounds of tissue beneath him. He wraps the panties around his cock, shuddering all over as the satin licks against his flesh, stiffening him further until he feels the thick bar of his cock pushing rudely through the fabric of the panties. He slides them over his cock, makes sure they're as secure as possible, and then just lets his fingers play. He doesn't grip himself, doesn't yank one out quick and desperate like he does on the nights he's listening to the silence from Chris' room and wondering if Chris is listening to the silence from his. Instead, he pets himself through the satin, gives his cock all the touches, the whisper soft strokes with just the tips of his fingers as he can stand.

He closes his eyes as he does it. Imagines it's Chris touching him this way, teasing his fingers over Isaac while his eyes glow almost beta-blue up at Isaac through the fan of his lashes. Imagines that Chris is delighting in the hard, hot silk of his cock under the satin of the panties.

Sees that wonder on Chris' face again, that softening of his mouth and the closing of his eyes as he gets lost in touch.

It's that image that does it, that pushes Isaac over the edge into orgasm.

He lays there for a while, shuddering through the aftershocks, and has to blink himself back to reality. When he's recovered, he stretches his senses, tries to see if Chris is near. He's only slightly disappointed to realize he's not. 

The tissue paper that had wrapped up his purchases is handy for clean up, and he ducks into the bathroom quickly, frog-walking since the purple panties are still caught around his thighs, and rinses out the white panties in warm water before cleaning off his groin and stomach with a wet cloth.

He ducks back into his room to finish putting on the stockings, fastens the tops to the garter belt, and then realizes he doesn't even know what he looks like. If he looks utterly ridiculous or as beautiful as he feels. So with some trepidation, he sneaks into Chris' room, where there's a full length mirror in a stand in the corner. He shuts the door behind him because… well, he really doesn't know why. It's just a thing that requires more than the usual amount of privacy, really.

But as he dithers, he catches sight of himself, and he goes perfectly still, his mouth dropping open at the sight.

Isaac's never really thought of himself as beautiful before, though he'd had enough people say things like "pretty" when describing him that he wonders what they see. He's always just felt kind of gawky and too tall and too thin, even after the transformation the bite had given him. 

But now, looking into the mirror, he really sees it. Sees the long, pale lines of his body. Sees the way the garter belt draws the gaze to his groin and the way the delicate satin of the panties catches the light. It's beautiful. _He's_ beautiful in it. 

Isaac is so stunned by his own reflection that he doesn't even hear Chris arrive home until it's too late.


End file.
